


Unforgivable

by Lokifan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco, Dom Ron, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Guilt, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humiliation, M/M, Mindfuck, Object Insertion, Post-War, Sub Draco, Top Ron Weasley, Whipping, messed-up boys, the best fuck is a mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokifan/pseuds/Lokifan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has been accepted by everyone but Ron as they attempt to rebuild Hogwarts. Draco makes an agreement with him: Ron will have one night to punish him, and do whatever he likes. After that, he has to forgive him. Warnings: dub-con, humiliation, whipping, object insertion, birching, forced blowjob, gagging, forced orgasm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgivable

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favourite of my own fics. It was originally written for thematic_hp's D/s and BDSM round, for prompt #45: 'a very harsh punishment is in his future.'

Ron decided that forgiving Draco Malfoy for his sins was the most infuriating thing Hermione had ever done in their seven infuriating years of friendship.

He supposed he should’ve expected it, in some ways. Apparently spending their summer rebuilding Hogwarts so they could return in the autumn wasn’t enough for his hardworking, ever-idealistic girl. She seemed to have decided that Slytherins were her new oppressed group to be saved from injustice. Ron rolled his eyes and refrained from pointing out that Draco bloody Malfoy was hardly a house-elf; he was less interested in sparring with Hermione, now he was allowed to kiss her.

Not that he got to spend much time snogging Hermione. The rebuilding of Hogwarts was the priority: everyone’s first concern. Ron could understand it in Harry; he knew what Hogwarts meant to his best mate, and besides Harry’s martyr complex was acting up again. He was constantly sending _Reparo_ everywhere, trying to excise his guilt over damage done in his name. Hermione was enjoying herself immensely. She was teaching their fellow helpers archaic charm after obscure spell, blissfully casting spells no one else had ever bothered learning. The war had done nothing to dim her enthusiasm for “doing some good in the world.”

Ron agreed. He really did. He wanted to help repair Hogwarts; to cover over its scars, and help the world recover from the dark cloud of Voldemort’s reign. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew morale would improve no end among the wizarding public when Hogwarts was restored, the proud beacon of safety and magic it had been – before Malfoy’s little trick, anyway.

But he just couldn’t enjoy it the way the others were; couldn’t fall in line with the prevailing mood. Most of the DA had returned to help fix Hogwarts, including almost every member of Ron’s year. The Slytherins had stayed away but the other houses had come back, and house distinctions were dissolving further every day. The tide was turning, happiness and idealism sweeping through the baker’s dozen of students as they rebuilt their school. New friendships were forming, bonds being made; everyone was moving past the war into a brighter era.

Ron didn’t understand how they could all move on so quickly. For God’s sake, his mother was still crying every night. He might have been able to enjoy himself more, to participate in this great renewal, if it hadn’t been for arrival of Draco Malfoy, two weeks after his parents were acquitted.

At first he’d been nervy; he flinched away from Harry every time he came near him, and had bruise-coloured shadows under his eyes. Malfoy had been paler than ever, like the life had been worn out of him; thin and anxious. He’d reminded Ron of an abused dog, expecting to be hurt, flinching from every friendly hand. 

It had been odd. Ron hadn’t been able to bring himself to sneer at that white, broken Malfoy; he’d just gritted his teeth and got on with things, same as usual. It helped that Malfoy hadn’t sneered at him. For once he’d been quiet, obviously trying not to draw attention to himself and sitting away from the main group during meals.

That had been fine. But then Harry had started to reach out to him: to talk to him, to ask him his opinion. Ron had questioned his sympathy then, but Harry had just said, “you’d understand if you’d seen the visions of Voldemort, Ron.” Hermione had backed him up, saying that “prejudice is always wrong” and that they all needed to let go of their anti-Slytherin prejudice.

She didn’t understand. Ron was quite willing to let go of his prejudice against the Slytherins. After all, the house hadn’t tried to kill him. The Slytherins at large hadn’t caused his brother to be maimed, or allowed Dumbledore’s death. No, Ron was quite willing to reserve his bitterness, his sneers and his desire for vengeance, for one Slytherin in particular.

Malfoy had started to smile more, and dared to sit with the group. After a while he stopped looking like he was expecting to be hit or hexed, having been met with nothing worse than Ron’s belittling comments. As soon as he felt secure he began to talk. And not just talking: he did impressions, he made jokes in bad taste, irritating and charming the others in equal measure. The happy, high-minded mood and Malfoy’s charm soon allowed him to insinuate himself into the group.

It got worse. One day, Ron found Malfoy and Hermione sitting close and having a spirited talk about books. Even though he didn’t think Hermione would ever cheat on him, it filled Ron with jealousy. Hermione had been so bright and interested, talking loudly; Malfoy had been the same, his extravagant gestures mirroring hers. Ron couldn’t bear their connection, especially since it was becoming ever more obvious how little he himself had in common with Hermione. Even Harry was starting to get along with Malfoy.

The last straw came about a month after Malfoy arrived at Hogwarts, in the midst of August heat that made Ron feel prickly and irritable. All twelve of the group had been working together that morning to fixing one of the moving staircases. There was a lot of laughter and messing about, pretending to fall off the stairs or to push someone off. Usually Malfoy’d be right in the thick of it. Today, though, he was pensive and quiet, casting spells by himself with silent focus.

Much to Ron’s disgust, people had been asking him what was wrong all morning. _Who the hell cares what’s wrong?_ he wanted to yell. _If he wants to keep quiet, we won’t have to listen to him!_ When Lavender asked Malfoy if she could do anything, in syrupy tones, Ron’s fists clenched. Some girls were so fickle.

Malfoy looked up at her. He was sitting curled up on a stair, looking small and tense. Finally he gave a small smile and drew a letter out of his pocket.

“I’ve had a letter from Goyle.”

“Is he all right?” Neville asked. Ron gaped at the stone in front of him in silent disbelief.

“I – I suppose,” Malfoy said. He curled up a little more, looking small and woebegone. “He’s unhappy though. He wants to come back to Hogwarts next year, but he’s sure everyone will hate him.” 

Female cooing and male sympathy rose in a chorus around him, and Ron rolled his eyes and wondered why no one else remembered the Buckbeak incident. Malfoy was certainly not above tricking his new friends into some pre-emptive sympathy for Goyle. He was now biting his lower lip and staring up at everyone through his fringe, with big, anxious eyes. Ron glared, his whole body going prickly and hot at that look. _Merlin, Malfoy’s annoying._

Typically, no one else seemed to agree. Dean sat down next to Malfoy with a worried look; Neville clapped him on the shoulder. Hannah was talking sympathetically: “oh, it’s fine Draco, really. You must write back and tell him he’ll be accepted. We all understand how hard it must have been, with his father already one of them – ”

Malfoy smiled tentatively. Ron nearly hit the roof as he recognised Malfoy’s brave, I-just-got-slashed-by-a-mad-Hippogriff-but-I’m-in-class-anyway smile. His lips pursed as he tried to keep control. “I did tell him that you’ve all been kind to me, but – ” he swallowed sharply. “It’s hard. We did such terrible things here, and coming back – ”

“No!” Hermione interjected violently.

Ron looked at her hopefully. Hermione had seen Goyle that night in the Room of Requirement; maybe she’d stem this flow of undeserved clemency.

After all this time, he should have known better.

“Draco, you didn’t do anything terrible here,” Hermione was saying. “ _Voldemort_ did terrible things here via you. There was nothing else you could have done – ”

That was it. At this latest outrage, Ron finally lost his temper. How _dare_ Hermione – Hermione who was so hurt by his kind, Hermione who Malfoy horribly insulted, Hermione who was so ruthless and was _his girl_ – just hand Malfoy forgiveness? How dare she offer to forget?

“What?” Ron’s deep voice, twisted with anger, rang through the air and echoed from the stone, pealing through Hogwarts and declaring its fury. “What? You’re just going to tell him there’s nothing else he could have done? How can you do that, Hermione? Don’t you remember who this is? It’s fucking _Malfoy_ , Hermione!”

Everyone had gone silent, not daring to move as these two heroes with famous tempers squared up to each other. Ron wasn’t paying quite as much attention to Hermione as usual, though: he was peripherally aware of Malfoy’s wide eyes, and the way they were fixed on him as though Malfoy had suddenly forgotten there was anyone but him in the room.

Hermione pinned Ron with a severe, disapproving look. “I know exactly who it is, and we need to work together now. I haven’t forgotten, Ron. I’m simply moving on.”

“Yeah. Moving on.” Ron’s voice was hoarse, almost cracking. He felt cracked open; his brittle shell of tolerance had finally been opened and now his inner self was falling out, his grief and fury and desire for revenge like a snail without a shell. “Everyone’s moving on. Getting past what _him_ and people like him have done.” He gestured at Malfoy, face twisted with disgust. Malfoy didn’t react; he was sitting unmoving, still staring up at Ron like he was the Second Coming, with wide, unreadable pale eyes. 

“You all get to forget. Well some of us can’t.” His voice was rising until he was yelling, not just at Hermione but at all these happy, forgiving people who had moved so easily from the darkness of the war, these people smiling in the sun. “I lost my brother, Hermione. Fred is – he was murdered.” The brutal word seemed to ram its way past his teeth, forcing itself out into the world. “George is so empty he might as well have been – Mum can barely get out of bed. I don’t have the luxury of forgetting! But this scum does. Why? He’s the one who brought them here!” he yelled, voice ringing out like a priest preaching of fire and brimstone in the great stone sacrament that was Hogwarts. “Bill’s scarred for life and it’s _his fault_! His father would’ve killed Ginny when she was eleven years old! Dad was bitten by a giant snake fighting the Death Eaters. I was _poisoned_ by this putrid little ferret, and you’re standing there telling him not to feel bad!”

Hermione swallowed. Her dark eyes were full of conflicting emotion; her eyebrows were creased in confusion, and she reached out for a moment in sympathy. But her chin, as ever, was set stubbornly. She wasn’t going to back down, and Harry wasn’t either. No one was looking at Malfoy with renewed condemnation; they weren’t looking at Malfoy at all. Instead they were all staring at him.

It was what he’d always wanted. It wasn’t what he wanted at all.

Ron made a furious noise, like a cat that’d had its tail stepped on. He stormed down the stairs, shoving past people roughly, every movement vibrating with fury that had no outlet. He slammed his way through the heavy wooden doors and kept walking in great strides, wondering if he should go for a fly. Might be nice to fly without _fucking Malfoy_ in his face for once, cheating like a –

“Weasley!”

Ron spun at the voice, drawing his wand on instinct. He was met with Malfoy’s pale face and darkened, unreadable eyes. Malfoy hadn’t drawn his wand; he was just standing there with his arms limp at his sides.

“What do you want?” Ron spat, bristling with fury.

“Look, I – I know you’ve got reason to be angry with me – ”

“Ha!” Ron snorted. “How big of you, Malfoy! Admitting I’ve got reason to be angry with you for nearly killing me! They said you’d changed and I didn’t believe it, but – ”

“I’ll make a deal with you.” Malfoy’s voice was tense but strong, like a sheet twisted by anxious hands until it formed a rope. 

“What deal?” Ron sneered, feeling his face redden still further. How perfectly fucking Malfoy: to think he could get out of this and make people forget what he’d done with a ‘deal’. _Just because it worked on the Wizengamot doesn’t mean it’s going to work on me. And so help me if you offer me money –_

“One night,” Malfoy said. “You can have one night to do whatever you want with me – you can have your revenge for everything I’ve ever done to you. I won’t complain, I won’t try to stop you. You can’t kill me or do anything permanent, but... anything else. I won’t tell anyone what happened.” He raised his chin, meeting Ron’s eyes. But if we do this – if you do this – you swear you’ll forgive me. Stop hating me, stop sneering at me all the time, stop giving me shit. One night, and that’s it. No more.” 

“You think I’m gonna trust you not to tell everyone? You must really think I’m stupid, Slytherin.”

He saw Malfoy’s grey eyes widen a little at the realisation that surprised him a little too: he’d agreed. No contemplation, no discussion. He hadn’t even considered not doing it.

Malfoy cleared his throat, shaking himself a little with an anxious quiver, as if psyching himself up. “I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow.”

“We don’t have a Binder.” Ron knew he shouldn’t do it, knowing that; but the chance to recreate the tiny quaver in Malfoy’s voice as he’d said the words was too great to pass up. “We’ll go without, and know I’ll come after you if you tell. I have your word you won’t?” He kept his voice stern and certain, like Bill when he was working.

“Y-you do.”

“Good. Meet me here at eight.”

He didn’t give Malfoy a chance to respond. Instead, he turned and headed outdoors.

A few hours later he left the Forbidden Forest. Amazing, how power could make old fears meaningless.

~*~

Ron was early, but not as early as Malfoy. When he entered the hall, Malfoy was already there, eyes wide and dilated with anxiety. His sticky-palmed look made it quite clear that he knew a very harsh punishment was in his future.

Ron would be willing to bet he had no idea what was really coming.

“Malfoy. Good to see you haven’t chickened out for once.”

“Weasley,” he said. “So what’s on the agenda?”

Ron smiled slowly. “You think I’m going to tell you?” He shook his head at Malfoy’s naivete. “Maybe you didn’t know I’m the best chess player to attend Hogwarts since Voldemort. Now you do.”

Malfoy didn’t mock Ron’s braggadocio. He didn’t say anything at all.

“We’re doing this in the Room of Requirement,” Ron said, and noted Malfoy’s flinch with satisafaction. He wondered if the other boy had been there since the Fiendfyre. “I thought it was fitting, since it’s the scene of your crimes. Some of them, anyway.”

Malfoy nodded, his breathing fast and shallow, but he didn’t move.

“Lead the way, then.” Malfoy jumped a little at Ron’s words. Finally he managed to move, walking across the stone floor like he was a man headed for Judgement Day.

Well, actually...

Ron walked a few steps behind him, watching every move as they walked. He could see Malfoy’s nerves, the slight twitching as he resisted the urge to turn round. Ron smiled, congratulating himself. Having his back to Ron all the way up to the seventh floor must be shredding Malfoy’s nerves.

When they got there, Ron reached out and touched Malfoy’s arm to make him stop.

The flinch filled his stomach with slow-burning warmth.

Quidditch strategising had taught Ron the importance of checking the pitch first, checked everything was ready. So he’d come to the Room of Requirement earlier that day and made sure that it could provide every instrument he’d need to teach Malfoy a lesson.

He strode up and down three times. “I need the punishment room from earlier... I need the punishment room from earlier... I need the punishment room.”

He made sure Malfoy could hear his mutters.

The door, when it appeared, was small, and so black it seemed to suck all the light from the corridor into itself. Malfoy was staring at it, white lips pressed tightly together.

“You first,” Ron smirked.

Malfoy’s unreadable look wavered still further at this, but he obeyed. Ron watched as he walked over, and visibly steeling himself, pushed the door open. Ron followed close behind, wanting to see every nuance of his reaction to the room. Malfoy’s steadily rising fear was delicious, and if he only got it for this one night he wasn’t going to miss anything.

Immediately opposite the door on the other side of the room was a great black hearth, blazing like damnation’s flames. Lucky they were there, too; the room was bare, with a high ceiling but lacking even a carpet. 

Over to the left, against the back wall, was a queen-sized four-poster bed, made of the same black wood as everything else in this place. It hadn’t been there when Ron had planned this, but that didn’t bother him. Malfoy didn’t even seem to have noticed; he was mesmerised by the things Ron _had_ planned.

Between the fireplace and the door was a small, overstuffed purple sofa; incongruous as it was, Malfoy was entirely ignoring it. Because to either side were black, freestanding shelves, and they were lined with implements of torture: silver handcuffs gleaming insidiously; a black whip coiled like a cobra before a strike; a small, sharp knife Ron had brought in himself. A high table stood next to the shelf on the right.

Ron’s voice jolted Malfoy out of his dazed state. He spun at the sound, eyes massively dilated with the sudden rush of fear. “Give me your wand. Now.”

Malfoy gaped at him and didn’t move. Ron wondered if he could.

“You’ll get it back,” he said with an amused smile. “Promise.”

His smile didn’t seem to be doing much to make Malfoy trust him. Malfoy was standing on the balls of his feet, moving a little as though readying himself to attack. Ron made himself look conspicuously unafraid. Malfoy wasn’t going to do anything.

He was proved right: after a few seconds, Malfoy gave a small shudder and gave in, reaching for his wand and putting it in Ron’s outstretched hand. He swallowed, a deep, anxious furrow between his blond brows, as he watched Ron’s big hand close around it. Ron turned and put it on one of the freestanding shelves. No point in stowing it in his pocket. It would be much more satisfying to keep it in Malfoy’s eyeline, teasing him with the knowledge of just how close freedom was. Helplessness would feel so much worse when the emblem of power was near, and kept tauntingly on the shelves with all Ron’s equipment: everything he’d use to punish.

“So, I get one night. Just this, and then I’ve agreed to forgive you,” Ron said. “If I’ve only got one night to make you pay for everything you’ve done, I’d better punish you for _all_ your sins. Not supporting Voldemort, since the Wizengamot already punished you for taking the Dark Mark. But everything else – every spiteful little thing you’ve done to me, to my family, to Harry and Hermione – you’re going to pay for all of it.”

By the time he’d finished his little speech, Malfoy was trembling again.

“Let’s take your most common sin first, shall we?” Ron paused deliberately, but Malfoy said nothing. “That would be insulting people, in case you didn’t know. You’ve always been a horribly rude little brat, insulting everyone who doesn’t fit your pathetic, snobby ideal. Me, Hermione, Harry, Neville, Hagrid... so for tonight, you’re not going to talk. Not a word.” Another deliberate pause. “If you do, I’ll gag you.”

Malfoy gave a small, jerky nod.

“Good. Now: strip.”

Malfoy’s expression was worth every inch of the effort it had taken to get the words out. His face had gone slack, mouth open in shock. Ron simply smiled grimly, knowing Malfoy hadn’t expected him to take such a line. But really, how could he ignore the opportunity to strip Malfoy of his dignity? Besides, it would make the other punishments _so_ much more effective. 

Malfoy, presumably recognising that Ron had no intention of backing down, put his long pale fingers to the fastening of his robe and began to undress. He had no choice but to obey; he had no idea what was coming, and no way to defend himself. Ron stood and watched him, blue eyes catching every slip of the robe, every new exposure of pale flesh. Malfoy was blushing, and clumsy in his movements. He stepped awkwardly out of his trousers and stood in his boxers. He looked cold; his nipples were peaking, and he was shifting from foot to foot on the chilly, bare floor. 

There was an odd vulnerability in seeing Malfoy’s bare feet.

But that vulnerability wasn’t nearly enough. So Ron gestured irritably towards his boxers. “You want to make this harder on yourself? I told you to strip!”

Malfoy bit his lip and moved his hands slowly to the waistband. His fingertips played there for a moment, before he took a deep breath and pushed them down. They landed in a small blue puddle around his feet, leaving him utterly naked before Ron’s cruel eyes. Ron, standing in his richest navy-blue robes, muscular arms crossed, felt like a king faced with a slave: a small, pale slave with fidgety hands, who was obviously itching to cover himself.

“Let’s look at your next sin,” Ron said coolly. “That would be your bloody annoying habit of flicking stuff at Harry and me in Potions.” He moved forward and began circling Malfoy slowly, eyes appraising. Malfoy stood naked and shivering while Ron did it, not moving; the stillness reminded Ron of some small prey in the moments before an owl snatched it up.

Malfoy was still thin, though he’d put on weight since returning to Hogwarts. His shoulders were still quite wide, muscles visible under the soft skin as they tensed beneath Ron’s scrutiny. But all Ron could really think of was how much smaller Malfoy was than him. He wasn’t short, but his attitude usually helped close the height difference between them. Now it was gone, and Malfoy looked acutely vulnerable. Ron was satisfyingly aware of his Keeper’s muscles, and how well they compared to a Seeker’s physique.

The circles had been getting ever smaller as Ron walked them. Now he was close, barely a foot from Malfoy as he spoke.

“You really shouldn’t throw things. Not all those insects you chucked at us were dead, you know.” Ron reached out suddenly and pinched Malfoy hard, drawing a gasp. He pulled back and kept moving, enjoying the new red mark on Malfoy’s shoulder. “They bit us. Felt sharp.” He pinched Malfoy again, on the thigh this time. “I hope you’re sorry.” He kept moving, pinching Malfoy’s skin, leaving little red marks all over. Malfoy managed to shore up his composure and stop gasping, now he knew what was coming. Ron couldn’t have that. He eyed Malfoy’s round, pale little arse, and pinched the soft underside hard. Malfoy jumped violently, giving a small, bitten-off sound. Ron smirked victoriously and backed off. 

“You stole Neville’s Remembrall.” Ron stood still in front of Malfoy. He deliberately came close to the smaller boy, invading his personal space and using his height to force Malfoy to look up to meet his eyes. “You’re always taking things that don’t belong to you.”

At Ron’s tone, Malfoy spoke quickly, words spilling out of his mouth in a frightened rush. “I’m not after Granger, you know. I swear it. She’d never want me anyway – she’d slap me again in a second if I tried anythin – ing.” He stuttered to a stop at Ron’s expression: dark and angry, yet also controlled. Malfoy shivered, and Ron wondered grimly if he was thinking of his bastard father when he was angry.

“I told you not to speak.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened and he gave a choked gasp. “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, I just forgot.”

Despite the thrill Malfoy’s frightened apology sent through him, Ron said “I warned you what would happen if you spoke. Now I have to gag you.”

At that, Malfoy’s whole body began to shake. It was just a tiny tremble, barely noticeable; but it was compulsive. He was really going to pay for everything he’d done. Ron went to the black sideboard and picked up a long, thin scrap of fabric. Malfoy eyed him silently as he approached with it. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he blurted, “Weasley, don’t – ”

“Shut up,” Ron spat. “Open your mouth, Malfoy.”

It took a few seconds, but he did it. Ron shoved the cloth into his mouth, purposefully rough. Then he circled Malfoy again, and tied the ends of it at the back of his head. The black gag was tight; when Ron came round to face Malfoy again, he saw it pulling at the edges of Malfoy’s lips where it appeared from inside his mouth.

Ron could guess how afraid Malfoy must be feeling now. Pureblood wizards did fight physically; he could still remember their fathers proving that in Flourish & Blott’s. But for those who used spells, words were always vitally important. Gagging meant a loss of power far more fundamental than anything that could be inflicted by handcuffs. And the knowledge of this power; that Malfoy couldn’t speak without his say-so, had to do everything Ron told him too – well. Shame for Malfoy that he was so pretty, with those frightened grey eyes above the gag.

“What was I saying?” he said, musing. “Oh yeah. You, Malfoy, have a bad habit of taking things that don’t belong to you. Really the only way to pay for that is to give up things that do belong to you.” With a slight, shocked intake of breath, hardly able to believe he was doing this, Ron reached out and touched Malfoy’s balls. He held them, weighing them in his right hand while he watched Malfoy’s face avidly. The blank shock, followed by terror that turned cream skin white... Ron’s fingers tightened. 

“Problem is, that right now nothing’s really yours. It all belongs to me.” He ran his eyes down Malfoy’s pale body, stopping when he reached the cock in its nest of pale hair. He stroked his fingers over Malfoy’s balls, playing with them like they were an executive toy.

Malfoy’s cock twitched.

Ron pulled back with a gleeful smirk, to see Malfoy shut his eyes in humiliation, hot pink blush burning on his cheeks.

“Interesting. All right, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. While you were pretending to have a hurt arm in third year, for no better reason than to get revenge on Hagrid and Buckbeak because you embarrassed yourself, you got Snape to make Harry and me do your work for you in Potions. Including skinning your plant.”

Malfoy looked slightly incredulous now, in the midst of his embarrassment and fear. Ron didn’t blame him: when he’d planned this, he’d been surprised at the sheer amount he remembered of Malfoy’s wrongdoing, from years and years back. Even if his recall was slightly embarrassing, it was going to lead to an exquisite moment, so Ron judged it worth it. He’d wipe that incredulous look off Malfoy’s smug face any second now.

He went to the shelves and picked up the little knife. It was wickedly sharp, having been prepared for this. Then he picked up the six birch twigs he’d cut this afternoon.

“I’ve decided that to pay for that, you’re going to strip these for me.” He handed Malfoy the birches and the knife, and waited for him to realise. 

When he did, his head jerked up and he stared at Ron in horror, shaking his head and trying to speak through the gag. Ron slapped him powerfully across the face.

Malfoy staggered, nearly falling. 

“You’ve already agreed to do whatever you’re told for tonight. So keep your word and strip the birches. And do it fast. On the table.”

Malfoy stared at him, throat working. Finally he obeyed; moving over to the table, he began to strip the birches one by one. He kept his face down, focussing ferociously on his task; but the tightness of his muscles, so extreme that quivers were making their way down his back, told their own story. Having to prepare his own punishment was shredding his nerves. Ron’s unrelenting gaze probably wasn’t helping, either.

He finished surprisingly quickly, especially considering how much his hands were shaking. He put the birches down on the table when he’d finished, and Ron spoke quickly.

“Good. Stay there now, Malfoy. Put your hands on the table, bend over, and _don’t move_.”

Malfoy did so. His shaking was worse now, and he was shifting from foot to foot unconsciously, as if dying to run away. His high, pale arse was intensely tempting in the firelight.

Ron undid the gag, pulling it out of Malfoy’s mouth. This would be no fun if Malfoy was muffled.

He picked up the birches, selected a nice whippy one, and brought it down with a _crack_ on Malfoy’s unblemished arse.

Malfoy gave a high cry, jumping reflexively away from the blow. Ron laid a large, freckled hand on his shoulder, feeling it flex anxiously in his grip, and set about adding to that bright red line.

_Merlin._ The rush of power made Ron feel light-headed. Malfoy soon began to cry out, little whining cries that just spurred Ron on. He kept beating him, loving the way Malfoy flinched from the sound of the birch coming down and wriggled in his grasp, whining and crying out, tears beginning to run down his face. Malfoy’s helplessness was a sight to behold.

“You’ve always pretended you’re better than us,” Ron grunted out as he worked. “Because you’re pureblood, or because you’re rich... a Prefect or a member of the Inquistorial Squad. None of it means anything, do you understand me? You’re scum, Malfoy, and you need to admit it.”

Malfoy barely seemed to hear him, giving a tiny moan as Ron switched sides and kept beating him.

“Do you hear me, Malfoy?” Ron demanded. “You’re scum. I’m better than you. We’re all better than you.” He hit him again. “Say it.” And again. “Come on! I want to hear you say it. Part of your rehabilitation, ferret: accepting you’re nothing.” Ron brought the birch down on Malfoy’s blazing, red arse again, and he broke.

“I’m nothing.”

“What was that?”

“I’m nothing. I’m nothing!” Malfoy moaned out in a choking voice. “You’re better than me, I agree, I do!”

Ron stopped in suprise. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to agree so quickly. He remembered the Amazing Bouncing Ferret incident: Malfoy had been slammed against stone repeatedly, and yet refused to do more than wince. 

_Maybe I’m just breaking him down._

Ron felt a strange excitement shiver through his chest, mixed with a vague sense of guilt.

He laid the birches down on the table again, finished. He was panting heavily, and a film of sweat gleamed on his arm when he picked something new off the shelves, and started treating it.

Malfoy had started to stand upright again, wincing and reaching back to touch his arse. “Oh no,” Ron said quietly, hearing the malicious glee in his voice: he sounded, even to himself, like Fred or George in their more vicious moments. “Bend over again, Malfoy. You need to pay for all those times you’ve cheated at Quidditch – all those times you’ve tried to hurt our players or lied to Hooch. You’re going to learn to be honest while you’re riding a broomstick.”

With a nasty grin, Ron unveiled a lubricated wooden dildo. It was shining, slick with oil, and had a firm handgrip to allow Ron to control its movement. At the sight of it Malfoy went wide-eyed, scrabbling at the table as if for support or help. “Weasley – don’t – ”

“Now don’t make me gag you again, Malfoy.” Ron gave him a stern look. “Bend over.”

Malfoy did so, pushing his poor, punished little arse out for Ron’s inspection. He ran a proprietary hand over one cheek, leaving a smear of oil in his wake; he smirked at the pained hiss. Then he separated Malfoy’s buttocks, exposing the whorled pink hole.

He stepped to the side, letting him keep an eye on Malfoy’s face even while he was doing this. He pushed a little at Malfoy’s hole, stroking it with false intimacy that made Malfoy’s shoulders hunch defensively. He hung his head, blushing further.

The moment Malfoy’s arsehole had opened a little, Ron pushed the dildo against it. He forced the thing inside Malfoy, making him stretch around the unyielding wooden length as he pushed it inside. He watched the skin go white, then flush; watched it stretch around the intrusion, then finally split; saw the small smear of blood when he pulled the dildo back, only to thrust it further inside.

Better than that, though, was watching Malfoy’s face. Seeing the forehead wrinkle, before his whole face scrunched up in pain; seeing him bite his lower lip and fight to relax; seeing his face flush and his eyes water and his lips purse as he tried not to let out any signs of pain. 

“Be honest with me, Malfoy,” Ron said in a growl. “That’s the lesson here. You’re paying for all the times you’ve lied and cheated. So be honest – and so help me if you close your eyes I’ll make you pay in a whole new way.”

That was best of all. Ron kept his eyes unwaveringly on Malfoy’s face as he twisted the dildo inside him, refusing to allow him privacy or space to escape. Malfoy was kept unrelentingly in the room, in his humiliating position, feeling the dildo move inside him. Ron forced him to keep his watering eyes open, and enjoyed every small whimper of pain. The pitiful sounds sent shivers through him, unmatched even by how he’d felt when Malfoy had screamed at the birching; this was defeat, and it tasted even better.

Ron’s cock was aching now, and it was clearly time to move on to the next punishment. He gave the dildo a final twist then stood back, leaving it lodged firmly inside Malfoy. The handgrip peeked from between Malfoy’s cheeks as he stood up, and Ron swallowed.

“You know what the next thing on the list is? Kissing up to bastards. You’re a suck-up, Malfoy, and now you’re going to suck me off.”

He undid his robes, letting his rampant cock stand. Malfoy stared at it in frozen horror. “Go on then, Malfoy. On your knees, and kiss my cock.”

Malfoy gave him an inexpressibly complicated, furious look; but by now he was too frightened, and too cowed, to do anything but obey. He fell easily to his knees. After that, though, he did nothing; simply stared anxiously at the hard cock in front of his face and breathed, chest moving with the thin, sharp panting.

“Well?” Ron said sharply.

He flinched, leaning forward. He shut his eyes, then pressed a few reluctant kisses against the head of Ron’s cock, apparently working up his nerve. The sight of his blond head above his cock, and the feeling of those reluctant, humiliated kisses, hardened Ron still further and he wondered if Malfoy was tasting his pre-come.

He started to press kisses down Ron’s shaft. Then he took a deep breath, and sucked the tip of Ron’s cock into his mouth.

He clearly knew what to do; Ron guessed Pansy Parkinson had done this for him a few times. Or maybe the Death Eaters had... Ron skittered swiftly away from any thought that compared him to a Death Eater and focussed on the feeling on Malfoy’s hot mouth and soft tongue around him, the sudden flick of a tongue across his shaft...

Ron gasped, blood roaring in his ears at the unexpectedly, unbelievably hot sight of Malfoy on his knees before him, cheeks hollowing now around his cock. The pale, set face, with its shut eyes, looked almost like a reluctant worshipper. But the twins had always said that Malfoys, being evil, worship the devil.

Ron remembered that the devil is supposed to be redheaded.

He was getting close now, and Malfoy looked far too comfortable. Ron seized his head, big fingers winding themselves roughly in soft blond hair; he began thrusting hard, then harder at the sight of Malfoy’s tearing eyes, the sound of his desperate breaths as he strove to breathe around Ron’s cock, the feeling of Malfoy’s throat clenching around him as he fucked Malfoy’s mouth. Ron shut his eyes, body tightening; then he came, ears popping, as he kept fucking into Malfoy’s mouth.

When he pulled back, body still fizzing with pleasure, Malfoy was swallowing convulsively.

“Get up.”

Malfoy obeyed in a scramble, tears standing in his eyes. He almost looked relieved as he scrubbed at his swollen lips with one bare arm.

He’d soon learn that was a mistake.

“Bend over the back of the sofa.”

Ron followed him, and when Malfoy bent over, body gone almost limp with shock and defeat, he removed the dildo with something approaching care. Malfoy breathed in, a harsh, surprised sound.

“Don’t want you distracted,” Ron answered the unspoken question, pleased that Malfoy had learnt his lesson about speaking. He replaced the dildo on the black shelves, and took something else off them: the long, frightening black whip.

“Harry told us you used the Cruciatus curse on people, on Voldemort’s orders.” Ron heard a tiny sound, almost like a sob, at this. “I’m not going to use an Unforgivable curse on you. But I am going to make you hurt.”

He brought the whip down. It made a hissing noise, thin and dangerous like a striking snake. It had looked terrifying, but Ron quickly realised he didn’t have a clue how to wield it. He aimed at Malfoy’s back and it whipped round to reach his stomach. A surprised hiss of pain met this, but after the next few blows went wild too, Ron knew Malfoy had guessed what was happening. He’d not be able to punish him properly if Malfoy thought he was incompetent; his mouth firmed, and he picked up a birch again. He brought it down with a delicious whippy sound, enjoying Malfoy’s flinch.

“You want to know what I hate you for the most, Malfoy?” Ron said almost conversationally, as he brought the birch down on Malfoy’s thighs. The violent blow actually made Malfoy’s knees quiver and he almost went down, fingers clenching in the purple material of the sofa. “You let the Death Eaters in.” Another _crack_ , and a bitten-off howl. “They took over, and it was all your fault.” This time he managed to hit the soft area where arse became thigh, and Malfoy gave a high-pitched moan of pain. “Worst of all, you let Fenrir Greyback in.” He birched Malfoy again, but not before he saw Malfoy’s eyes shut at the reminder, jaw clenching in pain. “You scarred my brother for life.”

He held the birch at his side for a moment, and stepped right up behind Malfoy. He kept pressing closer until he was pressed right against Malfoy, feeling the warmth of his punished arse and thighs through his robes and knowing the abrasive material had to be making his pain worse. “I promised not to do anything permanent to mess up that pretty face.” He dropped the birch, both arms going around Malfoy’s body, pulling him closer. “So I thought I’d mark you with bites, to make you pay.”

Malfoy made a small, frightened sound, wriggling in his arms. Ron only held him tighter, drawing him back against his renewed erection. One hand came up to clench in Malfoy’s hair, drawing his head helplessly to the left and exposing his long, pale neck. The other descended to Malfoy’s crotch. He started rubbing rudely at Malfoy’s cock, trying to harden him. Malfoy gave a little, outraged squeak and renewed his struggles. Ron laughed a little, then bit down punishingly hard.

Malfoy yowled, the long low sound of an animal in pain. Ron kept biting the pale neck; he sucked next, hard, and when he pulled back a bright pink mark had appeared on Malfoy’s skin.

“Very nice,” Ron said approvingly, and licked over it. Malfoy’s whole body shuddered in his arms, and Ron felt Malfoy’s cock give a distinct twitch.

He chuckled delightedly at the discovery, but it didn’t stop him from forcing Malfoy’s head over to a different angle. When the other side of his neck was exposed Ron bit down, clamping down hard on the spot where Malfoy’s neck met his shoulder.

Malfoy whined in pain, body bowing away from Ron’s grip. He simply tightened it and kept going, slurping at the skin of Malfoy’s neck. When he’d created a respectable mark, he pulled back again. This time, though, he kept licking, soft tongue soothing Malfoy’s pain. Malfoy squirmed in his arms and moaned softly; Ron reached down and was totally unsurprised to discover an erection pressing up into his hand.

He kept licking, wanking Malfoy’s cock roughly. It was hot in his hand, soft and hard at once; Ron enjoyed the feel of it, but better than that was Malfoy’s helpless moaning as he touched him. He kept going. Malfoy started to fuck into his hand, moans growing desperate –

Ron backed off, shoving him against the sofa. He left Malfoy panting desperately, eyes enormous and pained.

“Bend over again.” Ron’s voice had gone dark and hard as the black wood that made up this room.

Malfoy did, still quivering. Ron could see his cock, reddened and hard and glistening; Malfoy was surely sensitised all over, and when he brought the birch _crack_ ing down on his pale arse, Malfoy _screamed._ The high, agonised sound rang round and round the stone room, and Ron felt his stomach flood with warm feelings, like a lava waterfall, at the thought that he’d done that.

He put the birches on the table, then turned back to regard his pale slave. “I guess you’ve learnt your lesson, Malfoy. You’ve paid for your transgressions.”

Malfoy glanced up at him, hopeful look flicking from behind his sweaty fringe. Ron laughed nastily at his expression. “It doesn’t mean you can go yet, Malfoy. I’ve got you for the whole night, remember?”

Malfoy swallowed, shutting his eyes briefly with an exhausted look.

“Just stand there for a bit, all right?”

Ron went over to the big bed. Then he shrugged out of his robes in one movement, his confidence in total contrast to Malfoy’s earlier, fumbling movements. He took off his shoes and removed his boxers, forcing himself not to blush, or show any other instinctive reaction to the thought of Draco Malfoy seeing him naked. A glance at Malfoy, small and pale and woebegone, eyes shut in exhausted, pained humiliation, arse striped and teethmarks on his neck, helped.

He laid back on the bed, making himself comfortable on the big pillows. “Look at me.”

Malfoy turned and did so. He didn’t risk a bold stare, but looked up at him with shy eyes from behind his hair.

“You’ve left me with something of a problem, Malfoy.” Ron made an extravagant gesture towards his hard cock. “You’re going to do something about it.”

“I – what?” Malfoy’s voice was high and uncertain, tiredness and pain shifting through it like broken parts of a kaleidoscope.

“Come here.”

Malfoy did so. He stood by the side of the high bed, still and silent with his eyes submissively down, awaiting his orders.

“You’re going to ride my cock.” Ron reached for him, helping pull him onto the bed. His big hands stayed firmly on Malfoy’s slim hips, as he helped manoeuvre the exhausted blond into straddling him. “Right. You’re going to sit on my cock, Malfoy, and then you’re going to ride me. You’ll be doing all the work – and you’d better make it good for me. The better you are at fucking yourself on my cock, the hotter you make yourself look for me, the sooner it’ll be over. When it is, you can go.”

Malfoy did it without even a glare, totally sunk into his submission. He braced his pale hands on Ron’s shoulders, pressing hard against the muscle. He slowly lowered himself onto Ron’s thick, angry cock. Ron watched his face avidly. The dildo had been long, but not thick, and Ron hadn’t lubricated his cock well: Malfoy had to be in pain. He was biting his lower lip, tight arse slipping down around Ron’s cock, trying to hold in the small whimpers. Finally, he finished the job, sitting down in the cradle of Ron’s hips. Ron grinned at the sight of his still-hard cock standing up from the pale thatch of curls.

Ron gave a great groan of satisfaction at being enveloped entirely. “Fuck, Malfoy, you were made to do this. Only thing sweeter than revenge is your sweet arse.” He reached behind Malfoy with his right hand and started fondling his round arse, clenching his fingers on the hot, striped flesh. Malfoy gave a squeal of pain, clenching even tighter around his cock, and rose up a little in an attempt to escape Ron’s hand. The feeling of him rising up his cock had Ron moaning. “Good, Malfoy. Keep going.”

Malfoy kept riding his cock. At first his movements were jerky and stiff; he wanted to move fast, get this over with, but couldn’t. Soon, however, he picked up a rhythm that had Ron moaning.

Malfoy’s pale body moved above him, tempting him. Ron ran his big, freckled hands up over Malfoy’s pale chest, enjoying the feeling of his calloused hands moving roughly over the soft white skin, defiling his aristocratic look. He trailed his hands all over Malfoy, invading, exposing his secret skin. Malfoy was pink with effort, his face going pained as Ron touched him; he flinched away a little. The sight of Malfoy’s fear set something burning in Ron’s stomach and he plucked at Malfoy’s nipples, drawing pained gasps. His nipples were tiny and tight, and soon reddened from Ron’s pinches.

Malfoy was moving faster now; Ron wasn’t sure why, maybe just to escape the pain. He kept moving, fucking himself on Ron’s cock. He changed the angle slightly, then gasped, jerking his hips.

Ron smirked. Looked like Malfoy had just discovered his prostate.

He was gasping; started thrusting against it, face flushing still further as his cock hardened completely. Ron watched him, fucking back at the sight of Malfoy’s arousal. Suddenly wanting to make Malfoy come apart for him – just come for him – he wrapped a hand around Malfoy’s cock.

“No!” Malfoy’s voice was full of distress, and he swatted at Ron anxiously, trying to push the hand away.

“Stop it, Malfoy,” Ron said forbiddingly. “You’re still mine: the night’s not over yet.”

So he kept wanking him, forcing pleasure on him even as Malfoy whimpered in mingled pain and distress. Malfoy couldn’t stop fucking himself now he’d found his prostate, jerking between Ron’s cock and his hand though his face was pink with effort and his forehead scrunched in a pained frown. Ron tightened his hand, smirking as Malfoy moaned. Then Malfoy came, helplessly, shaking his head even as it happened; the look on his face, and the clenching around his cock, sent Ron right after him in the most powerful orgasm of his life.

Finished, he lay there panting. Malfoy was still sitting there; Ron thought he could see tears.

He shoved Malfoy off him. Malfoy fell bonelessly to the right and didn’t move when he landed, but lay still on the covers: floppy, defeated, lifeless.

Ron got up and started dressing, suddenly desperate to get out of there and not sure why. Malfoy was still lying where he’d fallen, body marked all over with the effects of this night: with Ron’s possession. His limbs were in awkward positions; he was nearly face-down, his white-blond hair all over his face.

Dressed, Ron went closer. “Malfoy?” he said a little uncertainly, something cold and uneasy shafting its way through his heart. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy stirred, moving slowly as if waking, rising from a deep sleep. He sat up on the bed with heavy, uncertain movements, facing Ron now.

His eyes were enormous in his face, black still with dilation, only the smallest hint of grey around the pupils. His white-blond hair was hopelessly mussed, sticking to his face with sweat or tears.

“Weasley?” Malfoy sounded almost plaintive.

“Yes?” Ron’s voice was hoarse, suddenly; he could barely get the word out.

“Am I forgiven?”


End file.
